From THE LAST BOHEMIAN OF AVENUE A

Abstract

from THE LAST BOHEMIAN OF AVENUE A Yusef Komunyakaa (bio) Now, these days I sometimes feel& think of the death-watch beetle& night sweat, can see my friendJoe Top dying on the third floor,& our landlord from hell. I could tastethe burn of dread in the rented airmid-July, & could hear the fly-humof a broken voice up there pleadingto himself, & that other gruffcounterpoint, saying, Joe, signyour Hancock on this dotted linegets you two grand in cold cash.Somehow, my friend muscled upa no. But if I hadn’t called AcornI don’t know what ungodly crimesagainst nature would’ve happenedupstairs. Sometimes I can still hearSara & Bobby reading the riot actto the landlord, both thumbs tuckedinto his red suspenders, a crooked grinon his mug. Two years later, as ifpetering out in a game, one daybefore Joe Top died, he lied in bed,shaking his head to a last request. Small as a bunion in a work bootan acorn grows into a mighty oakto buckle the southern-most cornerof a temple or bank, sounding a leafypercussive thrashing of moneylenders.But where’s Acorn our days of opioids& scapegoats, the few big solid heartswhen we need them? Yes, now, Judaswalks between some pretend prostitute& pimp in granny’s ratty chinchilla coat,speaking of fake news, pink marble, [End Page 28] augury, & the good old days of JoeMcCarthy. I’ve seen merchants sellingsnake oil in a haven of the mongoose,& workers at Acorn should’ve knownlobbyists leave wet blood on fine print,snaring rare songbirds for Jerusalemgardens circled by shiny razor wire. I’m sorry to contradict myselfbut I don’t like the sound or jestof these days because I know timeties all together, that the pardoningof Jack Johnson in the middle of #MeToo is a punch of iron below the belt.Or does someone believe skin colorblinds till we can’t see a true brand?Well, wanted posters used to be Deador Alive, & I also know a differencebetween posthumous & tomorrow.Both my grandmommas would say,Boy, give me my roses & black zinniasbefore I kiss the knowing clay. Now,I don’t know about you, but I hearRobeson’s voice rebuking a rich manin a gated park as only a yellow cameltrying to pass through a needle’s eye. [End Page 29] Yusef Komunyakaa Yusef Komunyakaa, a native of Bogalusa, Louisiana, is Distinguished Senior Poet and Global Professor at New York University. After he served as a soldier and a US Army correspondent in Vietnam (1969–1970), he studied at the University of Colorado and later received his MFA degree in creative writing from the University of California in Irvine. He is author and editor of more than twenty books, some of which are Dien Cai Dau, Neon Vernacular, Thieves of Paradise, Talking Dirty to the Gods, Taboo, Pleasure Dome: New and Collected Poems, Warhorses, Scandalize My Name: Selected Poems, Gilgamesh (A Verse Play), The Chameleon Couch, The Emperor of Waterclocks, and Testimony: A Tribute to Charlie Parker. For his poetry he has been awarded the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award, the Wallace Stevens Award, the Pulitzer Prize, the Thomas Forcade Award, the Hanes Poetry Prize, and the William Faulkner Prize from the Université de Rennes. Copyright © 2018 Johns Hopkins University Press